Ernest Hemingway in the Age of Cancel Culture
Can we separate an artist from their work? Should we?
I saw Ernest Hemingway portrayed in Midnight in Paris long before I read any of his works, and even then I was struck. Hemingway’s persona and influence are so pervasive that somehow I understood that this straight-shooting, chest-thumping man on-screen breathed life into Hemingway’s words. That feeling was confirmed years later when I read his short story Hills Like White Elephants for class and his novel Old Man and the Sea, which I rushed to get after reading the former.
Direct, almost terse, but always expressive, Hemingway’s prose has a subtle, devious way of packing in essays’ worth of symbolic meaning without using many or fancy words.
Old Man and the Sea is an uplifting, almost biblical story of a man overcoming trial after arduous trial with nothing but blistered hands and gritted teeth. I was inspired above all by his humility — despite his decades of experience on the sea — and his stupidly optimistic persistence — despite the relentless battering of mother nature and his fellow fishermen.
Even as a newcomer to his works, I understood there was ongoing debate on his character as a man and a writer. Should we regard him as a victim or a deplorable champion of toxic masculinity? It’s not so obvious when you read Hills Like White Elephants. He portrays the young woman in a sympathetic light, but there’s a sense her dilemma is inevitable, a “boys will be boys” mentality with a shrug that serves as the backdrop for the story.
The Thorny Entanglement of Artist and Art
The controversy around Hemingway reminds me of Junot Díaz. As the fellow-Pulitzer-Prize-winning author rose to prominence throughout the 90s and 2000s, questions swirled around Díaz like clouds: do his works satirize or glorify the machismo of his main character, Junior? Lightning struck when multiple women accused Díaz of harassment in 2018, as #MeToo swept the nation. The Boston Review kept him on board after reviewing the allegations and deciding they weren’t severe enough (“This was not a Harvey Weinstein kind of situation”), and three editors resigned out of outrage.
The storm around both Díaz and Hemingway mirrors the lack of resolution to the broader question:
Can we separate an artist from their work? Should we?
Unfortunately it’s a question we’ll have to confront over and over again, as evidenced by the steady stream of scandals around our favorite artists.
Who Gets To Forgive Artists?
Going back to Hemingway as an example, is there an extent to which we forgive authors based on how valuable their work is?
Therein lies the problem: who gets to define value? If a thousand people found purpose and meaning from a novel (if, in the most extreme example, the book brought them back from the brink of suicide) are we okay with the harm inflicted on one person? On two?
If it’s a matter of majority rules, or (in a world where some lives are deemed more worthy more than others) the most powerful rule, the books we choose to publish and read could easily perpetuate stark inequalities ravaging our society: books that uplift most people but perpetuate harmful language against a specific minority, like Muslims in America, would get published, while books that uplift Muslim Americans but bash a majority group, like White Americans, would not. I’m not saying the latter type of book should be published; in utopia all books would at the very least not harm anyone (who isn’t a dictator). I’m just saying that with such a binary outcome —to read or not; to publish or let perish — majority rules leads to a bookshelf that’s dominated by stories of the majority, some of which might perpetuate harmful language against minority groups (as well as a smattering of books that uplift minority groups without harming majority groups).
Turning a Blind Eye Is Not a Solution
One option is to turtle away with a book and avoid such topics altogether. If I enjoy a book in the privacy of my own home, if I don’t force it upon others, what does it matter whether I read it or not?
But of course, the book leads to some sort of profit. Whether I buy it second or third hand, or borrow it from the library, someone paid the publisher directly. Whoever’s at the beginning of that chain sent a monetary signal to the publisher that this type of book still sells, despite what we know about the author. My purchase (or borrowing) of it down the line sends a signal to everyone in between that someone out there is willing to buy the book off of them, making the next first-in-line purchaser more willing to buy, knowing they can re-sell the book.
It’s the same principle for why Honda Civics sell so well: they have a robust secondary market. When I choose between buying a Civic and XYZ car, part of my decision is going to be influenced by which one I can sell more easily and/or at a higher price. Shelf space is valuable, whether it’s for Barnes & Nobles, your favorite indie bookseller, or a library. The book that first purchaser is going to buy, the one they’re going to stock the shelves with, is likely to be the one people like me buy or borrow down the line.
There’s also the signaling mechanism: having a Hemingway on my shelf, or on the subway on my way to work, normalizes his art and in some ways his behavior, or at least the willingness to forgive or ignore his behavior.
Now imagine the CEO of Honda was a Japanese Hemingway, punching competitors, slapping people in the face with books. Would I still feel comfortable buying a Honda?
At least with cars there’s some distance between the creator and the product. Cars are soulless (I hope). Books are not. The writer’s thoughts, values, ideas, ideals, and emotions can’t help but bleed into a work of fiction. It seems as consumers we have even more of a moral responsibility to examine the artist. At the very least there’s reputational risk in not doing so — imagine getting caught reading a book by someone who turns out to be a Nazi; many people wouldn’t believe or care that you didn’t know.
I believe in forgiveness. It’s not for me to pass judgment on how veterans — or writers, for that matter — manage their stress; we could argue Hemingway was relatively benign compared to his peers. At least he made art from his war-time trauma and angst.
But there are limits to my forgiveness, and I believe in personal responsibility.
Finding a Middle Ground
Ultimately it’s up to us to define our own boundaries. The options aren’t binary; there are ways to find middle ground. If you don’t completely support the author, you could buy from your neighborhood bookstore so you can at least support a local business, or take part in book exchanges to reduce waste. I don’t condone pirating books, but theoretically one could. Don’t forget most classics are public domain as well (meaning there’s no reason Kindle should be charging when the works themselves are free).
So should we separate authors from their books, and artists from their art in general? As with all things in life, the answer is not a simple yes or no; it’s subjective and non-binary. Knowing more about the artist certainly deepens our understanding of their art, but I don’t need to know the intimate details of Dua Lipa’s love life to enjoy her bops. On the flipside, talent is so abundant that I won’t be left with a gaping hole in my world if I cut out all the musicians who are known to be rapists and pedophiles.
I’ve taken what I can from Hemingway and I’m happy to move on to learn more from other writers. I’m not an MFA student, after all. I have no thesis to write on Hemingway, no obligation to stick to his style.
I have noticed, with dismay that’s becoming begrudging acceptance, that not much art is left if I demand anything close to moral perfection from the artists.
The best solution, perhaps, is to try and rise to the challenge ourselves: live a life of dignity as writers and citizens. Nobody is perfect, but there’s no reason we need to cling to this tired trope of tortured artists hurting other people (and themselves) in their pursuit to make great art.